The way of the Eldar
by degloriamacharius
Summary: The Eldar are slowly dying out, each fresh battle draining the Craftworlds of inhabitants. Despite their fall from grace and seeming doom, many still don their armour and head out to war, refusing to give up. Each son of Khaine is determined that their empire will blaze once more into glorious light before fate consigns them to oblivion.


Overhead, a sun, the colour of blood, beat down on the ground, turning the ashen plain into a pool of crimson light. A good omen, Eardran decided. They would sweep the foul influences of Chaos from this world.

He surveyed the scene through the eyes of his Warlock mask, his long thick robes fluttering in the breeze. He scanned the horizon, hoping to catch sight of the enemy. In his mind, lethal energies pulsed and surged. He felt the urge to unleash them creep through him. He was a vessel for transcendent power. All he had to do was focus it through his channelling runes or his witch blade to bring death to his enemies. Of course, the intense emotions that this induced were just as dangerous to him as well as the foe.

His mind cast back to his time as an Aspect Warrior, an experience he had hoped never to have submit himself to again. Countless times had he stood waiting like this for battle to commence. As a Fire Dragon, Dire avenger and Striking Scorpion, Karhedron had fought on fields of ice under turquoise skies, danced through whirling red dust on burning desert plains and crept through underground labyrinths of dank dark stone. The ancient weapon he bore now remembered too, trembling in his grasp. Whether that was his own psychic potential threatening to voerload his senses or his hand's nerves was a question for later. It had not always been his - he had retrieved it from beside the fallen body of the famous Warlock Tatheya, where she lay surrounded by dead Orks.

The song of wings filled the air as a group of Swooping Hawks soared ecstatically into the warm sky. They drifted lazily upward, catching thermals like the giant birds of prey they emulated. Eardran knew that their seeming indolence was illusory. The Keen-eyed Ones kept careful watch in case the enemy attempted a surprise attack.

He studied a squad of Aspect Warriors sitting on the nearby rocks, meditating on the inner nature of their weapons. The sun glinted off their blue armour, highlighting the Fire Shrine rune that marked them as belonging to their Craftworld. Their shuriken catapults lay dormant across their knees. Eardran was not fooled by their apparent passiveness. He knew that the Dire Avengers could shift from quiet repose to instant action in the blink of an eye.

A high-pitched keening wail filled the air as the Howling Banshees performed the Dance of Skulls near their dropship. Karhedron watched as the women sparred in slow motion with invisible foes, each movement part of some greater intricate pattern, as if the whole unit were one organism sharing a single mind. Scarlet tresses swept through great arcs as the women swayed. Languorous kicks just seemed to miss each of the dancers. As the ritual continued the pace of the footstamping and handclapping speeded almost imperceptibly until the Banshees moved and tumbled almost too fast for the eye to follow.

A shimmering of air between the gateway tetrahedrons announced the arrival of a squad of chitinously armoured Striking Scorpions. They skittered across to the Farseer's position and bowed before Kelmon, the chosen Battleseer. Farseer Kelmon acknowledged their presence with an formal salute, raising his staff high in respect. Mandiblasters clicked acknowledgement, then they turned and moved to take up a perimeter position.

Nearby atop a great stone platform, Dark Reapers, arranged in three-man fireteams, stood immobile as statues, their guns pointing towards the ground as their owner's gaze swept the lanscape.. Their massive forms radiated menace yet their presence was strangely reassuring. Karhedron knew no enemy could approach without being the target of their missile launchers.

A line of Fire Dragons weaved across the plain as the Eldar army arrived through the gateways and assembled, squad by squad, on the plain. A thrill passed through Eardran as he realised the extent of the force the Craftworld was fielding. Unit after unit of Guardians arrived and took their place in the formation. Mighty Spirit Warriors stalked among the ranks on long insect-like legs, holding short stubby guns, that oozed a dread potential. Even the fallen dead had joined them for this battle.

As the last of the force assembled, Eardran speculated on the nature of the enemy they were to face. The corruption of chaos must be mighty indeed to justify the deployment of such a massive military strength, he thought.

As the formation was nearly complete, a change of mood swept through the army. He felt tension galvanise the nearby Dire Avengers. The Banshees ceased their dance and stood poised like ballerinas, waiting. A hush of expectation settled over the assembled Eldar. The whole army held its breath.

Suddenly the smell of ozone filled the air. A crackling, hissing sound emerged from the gateway tetrahedrons. The runes along their sides blazed as if being overloaded with power. A bloody glow illuminated the area between the pyramids. Space seemed to warp and then the Avatar was there, looming over his honour guard of Exarchs. Even the mighty masked warriors were dwarfed by his massive presence.

The incarnation of Khaine stood half-again as tall as those who surrounded him. In his left fist he clutched a gigantic battle blade, flames leaping upon its surface, flickering in the light. Blood dripped from the fingers of his left hand, leaving a tell-tale trail. Crimson eyes glowed like red-hot rock within his helm. He swept a burning glance over his awe-stricken followers. Eardran felt a cold wash of horror drench his soul as he beheld the god-like being, followed by an unholy thrill of anticipation.

The Avatar's incandescent gaze seemed to bore into the very heart of the Eldar warriors, kindling the fire of battlelust it found there. All fear, all hesitation, was burned away by unholy joy and murder lust. The killing power within them stirred in answer to the being's call. A cry of pure exultation was torn from Karhedron's throat. It mingled with the great roar of the entire army.

The warcry rumbled like thunder over the plain, a shout to inspire pure terror in any living thing that heard it. It continued to rise into crescendo after crescendo till the Avatar made a short chopping gesture for silence. Instantly all was quiet. Then, following their Bloody-handed God, the Eldar marched to war.

Flanked by his apprentices Kelmon prepared himself for the battle. His fingers toyed idly with the wraithbone tiles of his battlerunes. The air carried the scent of ozone and blood. He gazed into the viewing tesseract and studied the disposition of the armies, fixing them in his mind.

The Light in an Infinite Darkness stretched out across a long front. The Avatar and most of the Aspect Warriors held the centre in strength. Spirit Warriors guarded the right flank. The left flank was secured against the base of a huge rock platform. Dark Reapers commanded this height. A strike force of Banshees waited in the gulleys ready to advance, in cover, along the dry stream bottom. The Guardian Squads reinforced the centre, falling behind the aspect warriors. Swooping Hawks cast long shadows on the ash plain. The Eldar force was a river of colour, suddenly frozen in anticipation, each warrior mind melding with his kin.

The chaos cultists faced them along the top of the ridge, a huge ragged army of depraved humans clutching ill-assorted weapons. Once perhaps they had been part of the Planetary Defence Force before this world fell to the forces of depravity. Now they stood mouthing silent obscenities. A few hastily converted Rhinos lay hull down against the great ridge. The sign of Slaanesh was splashed in red paint along their side. The skeletal fingers of dead tree branches clutched at the sky. Beyond them Kelmon sensed, rather than saw, an obscenely powerful presence. A dozen rusty Dreadnoughts lumbered into position on the humans' left flank. Dotted about the force strode huge warriors, clad in heavy armour and wielding great guns. The humans about them seemed to almost worship these champions. These were obviously the lynchpins in their force.

It was time. Kelmon breathed deeply and entered the trance. His fingers danced through the air scattering the red and blue runes representing the opposing forces. He emptied his mind and sifted through the possible futures, searching for a probability line that would give the Eldar victory. As always, the future was turbulent, waves of possibility and psychic power and passion clouded the potential course of events. The power of the Avatar itself warped the timelines round it. He felt a surge of exhilaration as the power flowed through him - nothing could compare with this feeling of power. All the game-playing and event challenges among the Seers back on the Craftworld was only preparation for this trial in fire and offered only pale hints of its satisfactions. He focussed all his attention on the runes, and under his scrutiny they moved delicately into conjunction with each other, establishing the weave of the pattern. The runes danced around him, shifting like a shoal of fish in ocean depths. Each represented a part of the assembled forces, and through them he could maintain a psychic link with the Eldar troops they represented.

The blue stone representing the Spirit Warriors moved off cautiously, and on the battlefield the dead strode forward, implaceable in their advance. In his multi-compartmented mind a dozen potential futures blossomed. He saw them fall blasted by heavy weapons. He saw them stride among the dreadnoughts and engage in melee. He saw them stumble on the rough ground, rise but only to be brought down by lines of gunfire. He saw them raise their guns, unleashing the warp in close quarters, sending humans to their ill-chosen gods.

In the air the red runes rearranged themselves, responding to the attack. In his minds eye he saw the human heavy weapons belch tongues of light. Flowers of flame blosomed at the feet of the Spirit Warriors, sending a few to the ground. Kelmon reeled, feeling the pattern of the conflict emerging from the maelstrom of probability. Events were rapidly speeding up, and the dance of the runes reflected this. He struggled to keep track of the pattern as it became ever more complex and intertwined, twisting into impossibly convoluted design symbols of the the colour purple as the two colous melded into one another.

As one group of runes moved, another set responded in-turn. Images flickered through his mind. Swooping Hawks soared over the enemy front line dropping explosive grenades. A storm of laserbursts erupted round them. Several Hawks dropped like wounded birds into their ranks and were swiftly tom to pieces. Their runes flicked away from its endangered position and the airborne troops drifted into the sky out of retaliatory range.

A wave of screaming humans raced forwards. They slid down the slope of the ridge, plumes of ash billowing round their feet, their crude guns blazing, looks of ecstatic bloodlust frozen on their faces. The Rhinos provided supporting fire. The red runes span round each other like a Catherine wheel and touched the blue rune of the Dark Reapers. A hail of missiles leapt from the mesa top and tore the cultists to shreds. Another of the blue runes moved into the pattern and the Banshees started sneaking forward up the culverts of the stream bottom.

Pain flared through Kelmon as the Avatar rune grew in size and luminescence, attracting more blue runes around it as the Bloody-Handed One led the Scorpions and the Dragons towards the survivors of the human charge. Kelmon threw his efforts into following the new probability line the Avatar had instigated. The Hawks flew down across the ridge to assault the space marines and the Rhinos. The attack wasn't elegant but it distracted the humans from the frontal assault as they concentrated on the winged warriors, the slaaneshi followers forced to turn their hand to keeping some of their thralls from running.

Human reinforcements raced down the ridge throwing themselves into the fray, seemingly unafraid of the Avatar. Once again Kelmon sensed the presence of some daemonic power. The rune of the Accursed One span into the middle of the pattern, and the sense of looming presence intensified.

Men screamed as the Dragons' meltaguns charred their flesh. The Scorpions ripped through them, mandiblasters spitting death and destruction, chainswords tearing through skin and bone. On the right, the Spirit Warriors had bogged down in an exchange of fire with the dreadnoughts. They seemed to be losing. The Spirit Warriors rune flipped into a new position, placing itself in conjunction with the defence rune. The Warriors moved further to the right, seeking cover.

The Dreadnoughts were on the move now, heading towards the swirling melee at the ridge bottom. In his minds eye, Kelmon saw the Avatar turn and shred a mighty machine as if it were made of paper. Blood and oil mixed as the warrior within was ripped in two. Warlocks danced through the fray, blasting their foes with psychic bolts, letting their emotions guide their movements. Kelmon sensed the ebb and flow of their power within the runes. There was a brief flicker of unexpected contact where he looked through the eyes of the Warlock Eardran. He felt the shock of contact as the Warlock rammed his witchblade into the stomach of a cultist then withdrew it almost before the blood spurted. The melee was intoxicating, drawing his focus. out of the things, only a melee combat could be some random, requiring Kelmon's full atention to divine the result of spinning warriors.

As The Rhinos started to move rumbling forwards, bolters blazing, Kelmon tore his gaze from the melee, redirecting his focus to the battle at large. The hail of fire shredded through cultist and Eldar alike, but it pattered off the Avatar's armour like gentle rain. When the armoured vehicles came into range, the Dark Reapers moved into action. Orange contrails of rocket fire flickered hellishly, and explosions ripped the earth around the Rhinos. A direct hit reduced one vehicle to mangled wreckage, it's occupants spilling out of hatches, only to be slain by a hail of shuriken fire from aspect warriors.

The withering rain of rnissiles stopped the armoured advance. Kelmon let his attention slide elsewhere. The Screaming Banshees had reached the hillside and their rune twisted to the side as they charged up the slope to clear the ridgetop. The outcome of this move was strangely obscured and when they were in position he found out why.

His heart skipped a beat as he felt empathically the terror of the warrior women. Row upon row of human warriors waited and when Kelmon recognised the being that led them he realised what had hid them from his vision. A Keeper of Secrets. A Greater Daemon in the service of Slaanesh towered over the assembled throng. Jewelled eyes glittered in its bull-like head. its huge pincer arms caressed the head of a priestess almost lovingly. It beckoned with one of its other pair of human arms and a wave of cultists surged towards the Banshees.

The dancers held their ground, vaulting among the frenzied soldiers. Their masks screamed and Kelmon could hear the high piechsed wailing in his head. Men fell clutching bleeding ears, faces liquefying under the impact of high intensity ultra-sound. Then the Daemon entered the fray and the Banshees died. The creature's fury was awesome to behold.

The Slayer of Slaanesh seemed almost to gloat as it thundered through the Eldar force, pincers ripping off heads. It lifted one frail body and tossed it aside casually, like a discarded toy. Laser bolts and shurikan fire reflected of its glowing skin. It ignored the strike of the Banshee leader's power sword before playfully disembowelling her. The Banshees tried to retreat but they were cut off by the cultists surrounding them. Mad laughter frothed from the humans' foam-flecked lips as they killed the Aspect Warriors.

Now the Keeper of Secrets emerged onto the ridge top, holding the shattered body of a Banshee over its head. It stood there silhouetted against the sunlight and roared its contempt of the enemy below. It plucked the brightly-glowing soulstone from the woman's armour and popped it in its mouth like a sweetmeat. A look of obscene pleasure passed across its face as it consumed the soul contained within.

The Eldar army froze. Moans of terror issued from a few lips. A lull settled over the battlefield and even the chatter of small arms fire seemed to recede. The Avatar turned its burning gaze on the Daemon silently responding to its mocking challenge. The slow drip-drip-drip of blood from its left hand intensified. Its blade glowed brightly in its clenched right fist.

Kelmon sensed that they had reached the crisis point of the battle. Two mighty probability waves were about to dash, one bringing screaming terror and defeat to his people, the other bringing joyous victory. The outcome was unclear. Forces beyond his ability to comprehend had been unleashed here.

The Daemon led its followers down the ridge. The Eldar charged to meet them. Great clouds of dust rose around the combatants. Now all subtlety was thrown aside in the primal fury of conflict. The fighting became close and deadly as the two forces mingled. The Avatar and the Keeper of Secrets ploughed towards each other, leaving red destruction in their wakes. Swooping Hawks entered the melee. The Daemon rent two Exarchs asunder, tossing their broken bodies aside before it confronted the Avatar.

The earth shook as the two mighty beings clashed. The Avatar and the Daemon wrestled, each seeking advantage. Auras of power flickered around their heads as they duelled with blades of psychic force. The Daemon's claws locked tight on the Eldar's armour, striving to crush the being within. The Bloody-Handed One's left hand closed on the Daemon's throat as it sought to strangle its foe. The two mighty beings clashed time and time again.

Kelmon felt a surge of power as the Warlocks entered the fray. Their witch blades flashed, cutting into the daemon's hide, distracting it for a second as it lashed out with its fists, breaking bodies with each terrific blow.

For a long moment the conflict stood in the balance. The Avatar and the Daemon stood locked, straining to their uttermost, neither able to break the deadlock. Kelmon sensed the total nature of the combat. Here were two beings, driven by burning hatred, battling on every level, physical, mental, spiritual; re-enacting an old cosmic battle. Around them the struggles of man and Eldar were dwarfed by the energies unleashed. It was like two giants fighting in an ant-heap.

Slowly, painfully, the Avatar forced the Daemon back. The Daemon held its ground, but was forced to sway, curving its back away from its foe. The Avatar seemed to grow as it exerted itself more fully. Suddenly, with a final desperate surge it lifted the Daemon and broke its back over one armoured knee. A terrible psychic scream rang out. The feedback through the runes almost caused Kelmon to faint.

The Avatar stood now in the centre of battle and raised its blade in triumph. The cultists moaned, having seen their god destroyed. The Avatar glared around. Its gaze fixed on one man who fell to his knees screaming. The Avatar reached out with its bloody hand. There was a great splintering and rending of bones as the man's heart burst out through his chest and floated into the Avatar's grasp. The cultists fell back demoralised. Their space marine masters charged forwards, bolters blazing.

They charged a disciplind gunline, flexible. Kelmon focussed on the middle, letting the guardians take the brunt of the attack, as Aspect warriors folded round. The guardians gave ground, seeking cover as bolters tore through their armour. The loss of life sent a lance of pain through the farseer, each death causing a rune to fluctuate.

But the space marines were ensnared now. As they charged towards the retreating guardians, Striking scorpions attacked their rear guard, destroying it in a flurry of blows. At the same time, the dark reapers fired more shots, unleashing unerringly accurate missiles into the midst of chaos. A great cloud of dust erupted as the missiles exploded about the ground. When it cleared, only bodies remained, torn asunder by the force of explosions.

As one, the Eldar army surged forwards, chasing down the fleeing humans.

The battle was over. The massacre began.

Eardran walked across the plain of ash. All around Bonesingers in wraithbone armour loomed from the twilight, their ornate helmets and baroque armour turning them into menacing spectral figures. They stood over the bodies of the Eldar dead, singing the Requiem for Fallen Heroes.

A thousand points of light glittered in the shadows transforming the battlefield into a carpet strewn with tiny stars. Each small fire was a soulstone, pulsing with the soul of a slain warrior, a refuge against the ultimate death. Slowly the lights winked out as the Bonesingers reverently collected them for merging with the Infinity Circuit.

The warlock passed the burned out remains of a fallen Walker. The machine was shattered beyond repair, its external carapace pitted with blast craters, its great head fused to molten slag. It lay on its side like the skeleton of a fallen giant. He remembered the Spirit Walker as it had marched to battle, striding like an elegant thoroughbred, spidersilk pennons aflutter in the lazy wind. He mourned its passing. Another artefact of ancient times destroyed, another object of irreplaceable beauty removed from the universe by the forces of senseless destruction.

He stepped over a human corpse. The man looked small and pitiful now he was dead, hands outstretched, begging for mercy he never received. His eyes were open, looking up to the unforgiving sky with an expression of shock. The Warlock bent down and closed his eyes gently, thinking that no-one should gaze out into the darkness forever.

Shocking quiet had fallen over the field now that the battle was over. Eardran found it hard to believe that only hours earlier he had been trapped in a roaring melee, partially deafened by the clamour of battle. Now his ears seemed to ring with the absence of sound. Nearby a Dire Avenger sat cross-legged by the body of her fallen comrade. She had removed her mask and crystal bright tears ran down her face. He knew her name was Talessa. He placed his hands on his own mask and toyed with the idea of removing it. He did not. He knew that when he did so, the last remnants of his fighting persona would fall away and he would have to confront his own reaction to the battle. Then he too would weep. At the moment, armoured in the role of Warlock, he could ignore the worst of his sorrow.

He stalked through the aftermath of carnage wondering if it was always like this, the grief and the hollowness of heart. He began to understand why some of the Eldar became trapped on the warrior path. Dealing with the sight of so much ruin could be too much to bear.

We have won this battle, he thought, but we can never win the war. In the end this ceaseless conflict will destroy us. Every fight leaves us diminished; a few more souls lost to the Warp forever. He thought of Shiera, the Banshee whose soulstone the daemon had devoured. That bright, joyous girl would dance no more at the Feast of Forgotten Sorrows. She was gone now and a small part of the Eldar race had departed with her. The universe is colder for her passing, he thought. All the bloodlust and the bright madness of battle had gone now. It was as if the Avatar had taken it with him when he vanished back to his nether- realm in the heart of the Craftworld.

Contemplating the darkness of spirit that the Bloody-Handed One's presence had revealed to him, Eardran almost hated the creature. Part of him had enjoyed the battle, had revelled in the taking of life and the terrible excitement the being had led them into. The Avatar is part of us, he thought. We cannot escape that fact or shift the blame to him. We created him and we summoned him. His destructive potential is part of every Eldar. The Avatar's presence was simply an excuse for unleashing our darker selves. He is only our reflection, an incarnate nightmare of violence and death made real by our desires.

He reached the centre of the field where the remaining troops were gathered. Most of the Aspect Warriors had removed their masks; were becoming themselves again. Some sat quietly, some wept, some laughed. The faceless precision of the Aspect Squads was gone, replaced by the reactions of individual Eldar. A group of people had gathered around the Farseer. Among their ranks Karhedron could make out the face of his mentor, Lahessa. Kelmon emerged to be greeted by their quiet approbation. His face was flushed, triumphant. He was raised on high by two Guardians, who lifted his thin, wasted body easily, and was taken down towards the bulk of the army.

Somewhere, someone struck up a tune on the splinterpipe. The wild melody drifted over the battlefield, moving slowly from a mood of melancholic sadness to exultant triumph. It was the music of survival, of people who had passed through the inferno of combat unscathed. It spoke of the strange joy of victory, of the simple gladness of being alive. It mourned the passing of the dead yet spoke to the beating hearts of the living. It said tomorrow we will grieve but tonight let us give thanks for our lives. All things pass, life goes on.

Still armoured as a Warlock, Eardran was unmoved by this. He was frozen in the role of the hero, the eternal warrior. He confronted the Seer Lahessa. She met his gaze steadily. "It's over," she said. "The time for heroes is past." For a long time he looked at her, wondering whether he could face being a simple mortal again, a dying thing in a dying world. The music and the message of her eyes reached out to him and Karhedron took off his mask, became truly himself again, and wept.


End file.
